


Verita Liberabit Vos

by MyBlueBooks



Series: The death of John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Grief, Heartbreaking, Hurt John, Hurt Sherlock, Infidelity, Letters, Lots of Angst, M/M, Married Life, Sherlock is a Mess, Someone dies, Suicide, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8801386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBlueBooks/pseuds/MyBlueBooks
Summary: He can't remember the day he was forgotten, but he can remember the moment when he decided to surrender. Because John Watson has to die to make Sherlock Holmes understand what he had lost.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not an English speaker. Sorry for my mistakes.

_"Silence is the relative or total lack of audible sound. It could also refer to the absence of communication._   
_Silence refers to non verbal communication, and spiritual connection"_

A pale hand rubs his blue eyes and he let them dance until they meet the watch beside their bed. It doesn't matter what time is, because he knows everything about time. Because he waited, he still waits but he knows he won't wait anymore. Then, he changes the position of his body trying to not disturb the man who's sleeping beside him. He succeeds, and then his eyes are now on the ceiling and he smiles, because he thinks or at least believes, he had been watching at the same random point on that white and endless ceiling for about months now.

His blonde and now grey-ish head turns to one side and he sees the drawers. Over the posh furniture he can see several pictures he had been insisting to put up there. He counts with his eyes following each one of them and remembers those past days. But he realizes with a shade of grief and pain on his blue gaze that he can't remember. But then he decides to move again, and his head turns to the other side and he meets a dark and curly head, which belongs to the man he had been living and he's married with for more than ten years. His nostrils are wide open and he inhales his scent, recognizing the shampoo from the previous shower before coming to bed. He can't see his face, so he starts counting his locks becoming quickly lost on them when he realizes is too dark to count them all.

John frowns. There aren't things to see, to count, to touch or at least think of in his lack of sleep. Maybe it's time for tea. His feet feel so cold when they are meeting the floor which make him sigh quietly and then he makes his way to the door. But, to get a way out of the room he has to walk in front of him. His left hand stops in the doorknob and he moves it softly, not making a single noise.

He stops.

John looks at him and even in the dark, he can appreciate his husband's face. He hadn't change in all this time. Sherlock Holmes looks exactly how he looked when they first met. But then he frowns at what he's seeing. His husband looks so peaceful in his sleep, that John wonders if he's having a good dream, or if he's having a good time sleeping. Because Sherlock Holmes only looks peaceful in his sleep.  
Because that man, the same one that used to claim that sleeping was useless and a mundane thing to do every night, is the only one who can conceive any sleep. John Watson lost the ability of having a normal sleep long time ago. Like if he has a black stain in his soul, in the deep of his consciousness that keep him from any sleep.

He decides to go away. He doesn't want to disturb anymore.

The kettle is on and his mug has a teabag, ready to be used and make a miserable man happy for at least five minutes. And John smiles at that joke, because he knows he can be happy just drinking tea, but the man doesn't live of tea only, does he? No, if he does, John could have been the owner of his own tea factory long time ago.  
Some people need money to be happy. Some others need friends to be happy. Others are happy with their work. But John Watson has someone to make him happy. In fact, that person is sleeping in his bed beside him every single night then again, John Watson isn't a happy man and he hasn't been one long time ago.

The kettle is boiling and he is filling the mug now. He sees how the teabag floats on the hot water and takes it with him. Then he thinks that maybe sugar would help him. He opens the cupboard just to realize they, correction- _he_ didn't go to the shops last week. John sighs and loses all his hopes to find some milk in the fridge. But maybe, just maybe, his mug with Earl Grey tea can give him some five minutes of happiness and joy. He looks down at it and smiles. And when he's sitting in his armchair alone in the sitting room, he tries to remember when was the last time he truly smiled. And then he can't remember.

John turns the little lamp on over the mantelpiece and sighs again. The empty black leather armchair in front of him is cold and barely used in the last months. His owner, a tall and slim man isn't at home as much as he used to before. He leans back, and takes the Union Jack Pillow from the floor and let it rest over his lap. His gaze goes up to the curtains, and he's glad they are open. His eyes and ears are alert, and he can see the poor sunlight coming from the busy street outside. He can also hear the owners of the cafe downstairs opening the shop and bringing the fresh baked bread. He twist his mouth realizing he hasn't ate a normal and proper breakfast long time ago.

He hears steps coming from inside their room and he tightens himself in his place. He sighs inside and let his eyes close for a bit, before hearing the steps hitting the wooden floor and getting near him. John counts. One, one step. Two, two steps. Three, and the man, the owner of those steps stops. And when John open his eyes, he sees his husband taking his coat and his scarf and leaving without a word. John Watson wonders when was the last time they shared a conversation. And he chuckles because he can remember that, he can remember when was the last time they shared a conversation, John remembers the last word spoken: _No_. And that word broke into his ears long time ago.

The ex Soldier sighs again, but he sighs in relief. Because sometimes he raises his head to the sky and send a quick and honest thanks to the God he believes is up above for not being able to remember Sherlock Holmes's tone of voice. The problem isn't find him and what they've lost, the problem is forget it.

Sometimes he wonders why he is still living there, when he knows he's just another piece of furniture for the other man. But John is happy, because he isn't another kind of furniture, he's an special one. He doesn't need to be polished or cleaned or even filled with books, frames or decorative objects. He can clean himself, fill himself and even move himself when he knows he's just disturbing.

Nothing will happen if he's still there, sitting in an armchair holding a cold and empty mug. The world doesn't move around him.

And he's happy for that.

At work, life is easy. John knows he's helping people and despite the fact his work is not the one of a Medical Doctor in Africa or maybe in the deep of the Amazon jungle in South America, he's happy when he sees his patients recovering their health. And usually they thank him with more than a nod or a smile. They give him drawings of a man of blue eyes who wears a white coat over a colorful jumper. And he smiles at the little girl in front of him and then to his worried mother, and he remembers the moment when he had to take one of the pediatricians shifts at Surgery. And everything started there.

It was hard sometimes because kids can't express with certainty where or how the pain is, but the smile and the happiness in their faces after a diagnosis and a full recovery filled his chest with pride. And when things at home weren't the best, his little patients were there to make him feel happy.

He was happy now. Everyone knew about his change in his career. Everyone but his own husband. And when he got his new diploma in a frame, he decided he wanted it hanging in the wall of his office and not in his flat. Because who really cared about him in those days were his patients. Not Sherlock Holmes, he stopped caring long time ago.

But John didn't care.

Or at least he tried.

He's still trying.

And he succeeds.

He will break free.

The mother smiles at him and he smiles at her. The little girl is feeling missing, out of scene and she climbs onto his lap. John stroke his blonde, long and curly hair and gives her a lollipop. John warns her to eat it after lunch and she nods. And once she leaves his office, another little one comes in. Another drawing is left over his desk, another smile is decorating his face, another lollipop left the little pocket of his white coat and another worried mother thanks him.

He looks at the clock and sighs with grief. His shift is going to end soon and it means he has to go. And be at home, and see him. John doesn't want to see him. Not today, not ever. The new pediatrician asks if someone is not coming to work, or if they need him for an extra shift.

They don't.

* * *

He opens the door and the lights are on. The man who sleeps beside him every night is lying on the large sofa, wearing his pajamas and his blue robe. And John's nostrils are meeting a new scent, but he ignores it when in the deep of his mind he knows what that new scent means.

His pale hands are carrying two shop bags and his bag. John hurries his way to the kitchen and places all the food he bought in the fridge. He got sugar, and thank God he did, because he's not been happy drinking his Earl Grey without sugar and it supposed to give him five minutes of happiness, joy and a fulfilled life. Tea hasn't been giving him those feelings lately.

John's blue eyes meet a basket full of dirty clothes and he sighs tiredly. It's late, he needed those clothes and obviously no one did the laundry. He shakes his head and decides he's not going to say a word about it. He's going to keep his mouth shut and he's going to do the laundry and pray to have pair of pants a his white coat dry for another day at work tomorrow.

The telly is on but again, no one is hearing or watching it. He moves from the kitchen to the sitting room to ask him if he was going to eat. John's throat is dry and sore. Every time he wants to talk to him he can't articulate a word. Because being close to him hurts him.

And Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how painful he is. How painful his existence, his silence, his presence and even his breathing is.

John stops. He looks outside the window and remembers the special deal he got from Angelo. The Italian man, owner of one of the most beautiful and coziest restaurants in London assured him that they- _he_ could get all the food he wanted for free. And the Doctor hated to go and eat without paying when he had money in his pocket but this time he needs to go out. He needs air and he needs to go away. And when Billy, one of Angelo's assistants gestures him to have the same table they used to have every time after a case, the one in front of the window, he shakes his head and decides to sit in the last table he finds. Spaghetti. He orders Spaghetti and the round man, with his uncharacteristic Italian accent greets him but he doesn't ask for his husband. John can't feel more relieved.

He shakes his head when Billy offers him wine. That purple, violet liquid inside the glass makes him feel sick, because John, in the very deep of his mind and soul, hates purple. He can't see anything good in that shade.

Purple was the color of love, passion. Purple was Sherlock's color.

Purple is the color of hatred, indifference and silence.

It's getting late, and he works very early tomorrow. John lets his eyes dance on the sky up above. The stars are shinning, more than any other day if you ask him, and he tries to remember the constellations and planets he learned back in primary school. John smiles. He smiles because he has a poster with all the planets in his office and every time he needs to distract his little patients of vaccines, he asks them to look at that poster and name all the planets of the Solar System.

But when he stops when he realizes he's in front of his door. He can't remember how he got there, but eventually he's taking the stairs and he can only hear silence. He must be asleep. Please god, tell me he's sleeping is crossing his mind and he sighs in relief when he sees that the other man is actually sleeping. Sherlock Holmes sleeps like a baby and John suspects he's taking pills to sleep because he's not the person who goes to bed at ten in the night and wake up very early in the morning for work. The Doctor knows this since the first time they'd met. The Detective barely slept, but now he sleeps even if the ceiling is falling over them.

John goes to check on his clothes. The pants are dry as his coat.

He changes his clothes and remove the duvets and the sheets and closes his eyes just to open them again and watch at that random point in the ceiling. He wonders if that point laughs at him. Every single night, they meet and every single night, John rolls into different positions until his eyes are finally closed and glued.

The ex Army Doctor is now in Morpheus arms. The Greek God of the dream land takes him to the most impossible and sometimes lovely scenarios. He remembers one, one in which they are together and nothing and no one can stop them from loving each other. John's hands travel on Sherlock's curly head and the other man smiles. He's the owner of one of the most beautiful smiles John has ever seen. But he can only see that smile in his dreams. In reality, he doesn't smiles. And he wonders when was the last time her saw that smile.

But the Greek God is good when he rocks him to those beautiful memories John is so grateful for. Because he prefers to have those memories in his dreams and not when he's awake. Because he can't allow himself to cry as the many times he wanted to.

Morpheus seems to be angry, because he violently throws John back to Earth. And the clock alarm sounds in his bedside table and before his husband could say a word, he turns it off and makes his way to the bathroom.

John smiles to the mirror and decides to be happy for five minutes with a warm cup of Earl Grey with sugar and milk, please. Sometimes he forgets he doesn't live alone, that someone else is sleeping beside him every night, because that is as close as they are now. They only share a bed, a sheet and a warm duvet.

He finds Sherlock leaning on the kitchen counter, drinking tea and looking directly into his eyes. John stops, let his white coat lean over one of the chairs and mutter a word for the first time in days.

"Morning."

And he prays to not hear nothing in return. Nothing. Not a single word or even a breath. But his blue eyes are wide open when he sees his mug filled with tea, milk and two sugars ready for him.

John sits in his usual place, in his armchair and drinks his tea.

And he's happy.

He can feel the warm tea traveling from his mouth to the rest of his body like gasoline. John's eyes are closed and he cannot see what's going on in front of him but he can feel it. Fingers over the keyboard of a black BlackBerry. Then, steps moving away from him. A long coat grazing the wood material of the door and then a slam.

Sherlock's gone. Again.

When John finishes his tea, he washes his mug and gets ready. His bag is full of files, pens, lollipops and two sandwiches for his break. He hangs his bag on one shoulder, his right shoulder, his good shoulder and then he takes his white coat with his other arm.  
The fresh and slightly cold weather in London is boring and typical. But he feels how his facial expression changes. He's not now the prisoner of a love he thinks is gone. He's now Doctor Watson, the favorite one of the kids that frequent Surgery.

John Watson has a double life. He lives two lives that are completely the opposite and those lives were like oil and water. Two things that could never be mixed in one. Because Doctor John Watson knows it's better that way. Because the problem isn't a problem. The problem is that it hurts him. What John Watson doesn't want to know, correction- he knows but he chooses to forget is in Baker Street. Because John Watson is a masochistic. What is inside Baker Street is hurting him, is causing him the most painful feeling in his chest, in his heart. But he chooses to stay and suffer.

Mary is cleaning his office when he arrives and he smiles at the nurse. She bought him a special and colorful plate to put the lollipops for his patients and there are also flowers in a vase. The office smells different of course, and the frames with his diplomas are also clean. She tells him she had taken the freedom to clean his desk and even decorate it to make it look better for the kids. He sits and let his eyes travel over the new decor: a vase with flowers and a little monkey puppet near his computer. To his right, she placed Sherlock's picture in a new frame, one with pink and red hearts. The plate with lollipops and candies are the last touch. He thanks her and she leaves him alone, letting the first patient in.

Minutes have become into hours and it's his lunch break. John unpacks his sandwiches and shares his break with other Doctor. They talk about new medicines, medical congresses and then he realizes that tomorrow is his birthday. And he has to say thanks to the nurses for remind him. They are all sweet women, but they are also a bit exaggerated. John overhears the preparations about the cake, the present and even the secret decoration of the place. Mary suggests to invite his husband too and John wants to scream. Sherlock Holmes would never be there, wishing him a very happy day or even smiling to his colleagues.

John can't even imagine him with his patients. Then he realizes Sherlock doesn't know, doesn't care he's a pediatrician now. He might not remember his birthday.

Sherlock Holmes must forget his birthday.

* * *

This time, Morpheus doesn't show up. John can't believe he's turning forty nine alone in a dark flat, watching crap telly and drinking tea without milk. He curses to himself. He bought milk just the day before and now there's no milk, but he's not going to ask where the milk has gone, because he knows or at least believes where or in what had been used.

And, as I said before, tea is the only thing that makes John Watson happy. In his birthday, he doesn't have that happiness and joy at eight in the morning as every day.

John needs to go to work and there's no one to say bye. No one to wish him a very happy day. And once he's out of Baker Street, the another John Watson borns between the trees of Regent's Park and a new smile is on his pale face. God gives him a lovely day as a birthday present and he smiles because maybe he's doing it to compensate his sadness. And hell, he's doing it rather well!

Mary is the first one to greet him. And his blue eyes are wide open when he sees the waiting room. Happy Birthday Dr. John is written in a large poster hanging over the reception. It had lots of little hands painted in different colors and under them he can read their names. His patients names. All of them, all of those kids that gave him a smile every day and illuminated his soul, that soul hidden in the darkness.  
There are also gloves, kids with their home made cards and even a huge vanilla cake. Doctor Watson smiles and two or three tears are falling from his eyes. The mothers can't stop one or two tears too and their kids don't understand what's going on. They don't want their Doctor to be sad. They want him to be happy.

Because he made them all happy.

All but himself.

* * *

He lies. He says his husband is away in Scotland working for the police. And he does it because he wants to stay. John doesn't want to be alone in Baker Street. He doesn't want to be locked inside that cage again.

Even when he knows he can be free.

But it's time to go back, and nothing can't stop that moment. John opens the door, juggling with his bag, his white coat, the poster and a bag full of birthday cards and little presents. The nurse staff gave him a new stethoscope with funny colors. And the other Doctors gave him a new pen with his name on it. He's frowning. He can feel the lights on and movements on the floor. John prays and prays almost out aloud to the sky above to not share more than ten or twenty minutes with that man.

The door is open and there is he, trying to fix one of the strings of his expensive and posh violin. Sherlock never turns around to greet him and he never says a word. John has a shower, cooks some rice and sits in his armchair to watch the news. He puts one plate over the desk without saying a word. One of the female journalist repeats the date and John curses inside. But he finishes his food and turns around to see his husband furiously typing in his phone. He didn't touch the food. John sighs quietly, just for himself, and makes his way to the kitchen to wash the dishes and then he goes to their room. He looks at the clock in his bedside table. It's midnight. His birthday is gone. He's forty nine now.

And for the first time in more than ten years, his husband hasn't say a word.

The Doctor closes his eyes and he meets with Morpheus. The Greek God takes his hand to give him another good dream, and the mythology's character smiles. He smiles because today John deserves more. No one is giving him what he deserves. His husband takes him for granted. John takes himself for granted. So in his dreams, he's going to be the man he deserves to be. But hey, he's not that man because people doesn't want him to be. He's no the man he deserves to be because he doesn't want it.

In his dream, John is free.

John is walking down the park, holding hands with him. He's smiling and talking. Sherlock asks John how was his day and the Doctor answers naturally. His words, his lips moving, his hands feels so natural that John forgets they haven't been like that long time ago. There are also kids running between them, smiling and laughing. But everything is about them. Just them.

He feels it. He feels like it has been ages since he had been there walking and talking with their hands glued together. John looks up above, he looks for Morpheus but he doesn't appear. He can only hear him. The Greek God asks him if he wants to stay. His lips are moving in a such a way he's almost convincing him. The charms of such an endless happiness, joy and mostly important, Sherlock inside that eternal dreams are very tempting, John admits. He promises him no harm, no pain, no silence.

And John shakes his head. He knows he will untie the hatred of the owner of the dream land, but he doesn't want a lie. He wants to live in the reality, even if it means all the opposite of the offer. Morpheus screams and the waters turn from blue to red as towards the sky above him, and Sherlock disappears. The kids are gone. And John is just standing in the yellow and lifeless grass, alone in a dark and eternal silence. The God warned him. He showed him how his life could be if he decided to wake up.

But far away from accepting his deal, John smiles at him and decides to go back, even when he hears Morpheus words. He's going to close his eyes soon just to never open them again.

* * *

Days later, John meets another basket full of dirty clothes. He separates shirts from pants, socks from underwear and prepares the washing machine when he smells something different. They may be away from each other, but the Doctor can differentiate his husband's own perfume. John can smell a new perfume in Sherlock's shirt collar and he lets one heavy tear fall from his blue eyes. He wonders how one of the most clever men in the world could fail in such detail. But he laughs, and he knows his husband is hearing that laugh from his armchair in the sitting room. John laughs because he knows what Sherlock thought. John Watson is just a Doctor. He's stupid. He doesn't worth it. After all, to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was another piece of furniture. John knew it, and polished himself with the sleeve of his blue jumper and filled himself with a cup of tea.

This time he's sitting in front of his husband, drinking tea and trying to be happy for at least five minutes. He wish he could own a tea factory, he would be the most happy man in the world. But he's John Watson. A pediatrician, ex Army Doctor. Nothing more. John's blue eyes meet Sherlock's grey ones. The Doctor's eyes stops in every curve of those high cheekbones and he wonders who's the new owner of his husband's lips and words.

Once, the Detective told him he was the most interesting man in the world. That he was the only unsolved puzzle in his life. Oh God, that happened long time ago. And in seconds, John's life beside Sherlock Holmes runs in his mind like a movie, everything in slow motion. Bart's laboratory, Mrs Hudson asking him if they needed two bedrooms, Angelo's dinners, a dead cabbie, his chest full of Semtex in a dark pool, their first kiss, their first night together, their wedding. Their first silence and finally their last touch.

John Watson wonders what's going on Sherlock's mind. Deductions, files being deleted, information being stored... John Watson's file is gone. That file with more than ten years of caring, touches, kisses, friendship and love has been erased.

He wants to say it, but the silence defeats him. Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Punchline, the man who can outlive God to have the last word can't say a word.

* * *

She sees him and asks him what was going on. His hands are shaking and his head is killing him. She tries to keep him calm while John tries to assure her he's fine, that nothing is wrong with him and it just stress, that he had a bad night, that he couldn't sleep. That he only needs to have some rest, but he's fine. She doesn't believe him, and she tells him so. The Doctor nods and eats his own tears because no one can help him and no one will. He's alone in this and alone he will be. He knows Mary won't leave his office until he tells her what's going on, but his next patient is waiting for him, and John Watson has another little kid to help, another drawing to hang on the wall of his office and another lollipop to give.

Mary Morstan finally nods and leaves. His next patient comes in he draws a smile in his face, and his blue eyes shine again.

John's hands stop shaking and he feels how his brain relaxes inside his skull. The pain is gone and the fake and ghostly happiness and shade of the good Doctor John Watson reappears. He feels like he's a new person when he starts his shifts. Once he leaves Baker Street, a new John Watson borns, but this new John Watson dies before the day comes to an end.

And the day goes by as any other day. Kid after kid, worried mother after worried mother, and loads of lollipops are gone. He takes off his white coat and the colorful stethoscope which attracted most of his patients attention and was hanging from his neck is also removed. Before John turns the lights off, he glances at his desk. At Sherlock's picture.

The frame Mary got for him is so pretty and nice that he feels it would be a shame to punish it, to throw it just for the pain the man in that picture his causing him. His left hand stops and his eyes scan the picture, remembering the moment of that photograph, but he can only remember three words he hasn't heard long time ago and he thinks he will never hear again, at least not addressed to him. Sherlock Holmes is smiling and his eyes are shining. Their heads were glued together and their cheeks were blushed with happiness.

The hell is in the same Earth and the demons are walking between the living ones.

And John removes the picture from the frame and throws it to the bin.

* * *

_The broken object is over the table rolling from one side to other and the sun is filtering through the dirty glass of the windows reflecting the colors inside the kaleidoscope. But even broken, its making funny, undefined and colorful shapes in the opposite wall. A pale hand takes the object and it dies when is smashed against the floor, showing the different beads and gems that used to give the object its psychedelic effect._

_A dark silhouette moves from the place he's standing to his usual black armchair with a violin in his hands that are perfectly used to this violin and with a quick, studied and a very neat movement he supports his face over the chin rest and let his fingers dance over the scroll and then to the fingerboard. The other hand moves in the air holding the bow and soft, hurtful and dark notes are produced by this man and his violin._

_The only audible sound is developed by this dark haired man and his violin. The curtains are wide open and the glasses are dirty but the light fights and win, illuminating the only man alive in that room and his dark music. The little pieces of broken frames and ripped pictures are shinning too and then the notes change their rhythm and the violinist is losing control._

_The bow his hurting the strings of his precious instrument and the fingers of the tall musician are bleeding. He stands up and walks until he's just inches away from him and continues playing heavily with erratic movements, frowning with the sun light that is also entering from the window in front of the bed. It shines over his pale and expressionless face. His grey irises are shinning._

_Sherlock Holmes isn't crying. He's just playing the violin because he needs to think why the man lying in his bed is dead._

_Tick tock goes the clock._


	2. Chapter 2

_"Silence can mean anger, hostility, disinterest, or any number of other emotions"_

John forgets everything about his husband's clothes, and decides he's going to end his pain. He's done with his graceless heart. But he knows he needs time. And time is there with him, glued to him like his second skin. And hell, he's so grateful for that, because Time is a very good friend. He accompanied him in his very solitary moments and Time knows what hurts him, how does it and how that pain will end.

The other and last friend who joins the circle is Destiny.

Destiny tells John he can build his own path, his own way in this world, or he can just accept what he has in his hands. Because Destiny knows what will happen and how much time it will take John to finish, to end his pain. Time and Destiny know the other man. They have known Sherlock for so long that they know which part he will be playing in this. They know what he's doing, how he's doing it and what he will do to finish this. To help John to shoot the pain in his heart.

And help John to break free.

John Watson knows Destiny and Time meet behind his back, that they discuss his life and they are moving all the strings that need to move to keep life going. He isn't their darling. But he knows he's a special case. The God up above had these plans, and John accepts them. And one morning, the other man speaks to him.

"As always John, you see but you don't observe."

An statement. Sherlock Holmes isn't asking, he's stating. His eyes aren't watching, his grey eyes are burning John's skin and his voice isn't being listened to, its shooting John. His blue eyes are full of tears and the head ache comes again, a nose bleed threats to come in plain sight and John hurries down the stairs of their flat to go to work. The Doctor doesn't hears his voice calling him back, and not even footsteps behind him. He's just walking along the streets with his bag in his bad shoulder and his white coat with a red stain. John wonders if Sherlock had noticed that.

At Surgery, Mary, the children's nurse helps him with the red stain and she manages to get it clean. John smiles at her and she asks him again how he feels. The Doctor lies and she believes him. Or that's what he believes, because without saying a word, Mary puts a new photo in the colorful frame over his desk; one photograph of his birthday, John with all the kids. John smiles at her and a new little patient comes in.

The worried mother can't stop talking and the Doctor is lose in his thoughts to stop her nervous and incoherent speech. He know this day isn't and it won't be one of the best ones in his life, but he looks at his little patient's eyes. Blue eyes. The little toddler has blue eyes and for a moment, he's lost in them. He can see youth, hope and a long and beautiful life behind those eyes.

Doctor John Watson wonders what can people see in his eyes.

He assures the mother her little boy is fine, that the fever is normal and he's just growing up. And he even congratulates her, because his patients is indeed a very healthy boy. Sparkles born from her eyes and she thanks him. John is a very modest man, he is. But if he every Thank you Doctor Watson were just a penny, the blonde Doctor would be rich by now. And he smiles because if he were that rich, he would have his own tea factory and maybe he would be happy.

Tea.

Mary brings him tea in the middle morning, just before lunch and they share fifteen minutes without work and concerns. John's eyes dance on her. A happily married woman, young, pretty, with love and passion for his work and most important, for the others. He knows she was special since he met her, years ago when she arrived looking for a job after graduating as a specialized children's nurse. And he remembers how shy she was with him, with most of the Doctors. But just in days, Nurse Mary Morstan won everyone's hearts, even of the most spoiled and capricious little kids and some of their smug and conceited parents.

John thanks her again for the decoration of his office and even for the new posters in the walls. Now there are three more posters among the one about the Solar System. There is one about different animals with their names written below each different figure, another about vegetables and fruits and finally one about a Disney movie John can't really tell what is it about.

The blonde nurse tells him about her plans for her new flat's decoration and he even suggests her wallpaper brands and a few shops he knows will sells her good things for a good price. And somehow, all the sadness and pain his body carries disappear. John feels the relief in his body and a tiny little flame starts to shine in the middle of his chest. He remembers the plans he had for Baker Street once the lovely and charming old woman who owned the place moved to the countryside and left him in charge of the whole house. He wanted his old room for his husband, he wanted to build a den for him, with a place for his chemist set, his books, his notes, even a map of London of the size of the walls for him.  
The blonde man wanted to do a lot of things he can't remember why he didn't do them. Why that to do list disappeared in his hands and why the plans they once had fade with time.

* * *

Family is the most important thing in someone's life, is where we came from, is what we build with the person we love. And family is all we have in the end.

But if family is all, what does this man has but family?

Baker Street is so silent tonight that he can only hear his own breathing and his own footsteps. His husband is not at home again, and one part of his heart is happy and relieved, but the other is dying with pain. John feels too tired to cook and prepare himself a proper dinner and this time he's not going to Angelo's so instead he prepares himself a cup of tea and a toast with a generous spoonful of strawberry jam and sits in his usual armchair to watch crap telly before going to sleep. It's all the same and the usual, crimes, the weather and so on. His eyes go from one place to another in the sitting room and he sees something wrong is going on.

Before the tears threat him again, he leaves the empty mug in the sink and walks to his room to undress himself and cover his body with the heavy duvet in that bed. The other side, the left side feels so cold. And for a moment, he wonders what he's doing there, lying hopeless and almost lifeless in that half empty bed with a heart as wounded as many stars you can only see in the dark sky of the night.

What is Sherlock Holmes doing with him?

He remembers that dream, the one in which the Greek God of the dream land showed him what he can give him for all eternity if he decides to stay with him, down in the dream land. John frowns and wonders if Time and Destiny are behind that. Because the hell is in the same Earth and the demons are walking between the living ones. He finally comes to terms with what will come and what the God he believes in up above has for him. John just wants to finish the sadness that had infected his heart long time ago, and no matter the pain he feels inside his chest, he doesn't know the cure. Correction, he does know the cure, but he doesn't know who he should ask for it because he's alone. His husband is not here with him and he won't even be here when Destiny and Time finally carried out their plan.

Morpheus takes him back to that dream. And he makes the offer again to the only man he had offered such a thing before. The God knows the pain inside that man's chest. He can see that heart being ripped in countless parts everyday by that mad man. But what Morpheus can't understand, is why Sherlock Holmes inflicts these amounts of pain to this man. Because this man, John Watson had saved lives in the front line in a war, before in the hospitals and after every single day since he had put a foot back in London. He had saved his husband's life every time he could, even putting his own life in the stakes.  
Because John can put his own body in front of an armed man just to save Sherlock. And then, the Detective prefers to ignore the only person in the living ones world who really cares and lives for him. But, as Morpheus wonders why John is being taking for granted, he also wonders what John had done to deserve this. Because he doesn't. He deserves Heaven and more. He deserves a happy life, and not what the other man is doing to him.  
If John Watson had given his life more than once for lots of people and not only for Sherlock Holmes, what that man had done to deserve a husband like John?

The Greek God forgets, and watches how this man enjoys his dream. He know he will enjoy that sweet and endless joy and happiness soon, because soon he will take John to this world to never let him go.

* * *

He wakes up alone in a large and cold bed. The other side is empty and he stretches his arms and yawns, rubbing his blue and tired eyes with the back of his pale palms. It always takes time for him to adjust himself when he wakes up. He had so many good dreams that sometimes when he wakes up he's totally aware of the reality he is living.

John opens the little window in front of the bed and let his palms face the grey and cloudy sky and feels the cold water falling over them. It's raining.  
And London without rain is like sadness without tears.

Despite being awake for minutes now, his ears are alert when he feels his mobile buzzing with a new text. Certain DI of the Scotland Yard asks him to go to sign the papers because a mad man is in jail and no one would let him go unless he's there to assure them he's going to behave.

The Doctor wonders when was the last time he needed him.

When he appears, everyone greets him, even the ones he used to dislike years ago. All of them, even the cleaning ladies ask him how is he and why he hadn't been coming like he used to. Just a warm and fake smile and a few wrinkles around his eyes are enough to tell them how grateful he is for their concern. Not like if he is pitying himself. But the events of tonight are calling in his mind. And John Watson wants to take advantage of this rainy day because he knows what will happen but he doesn't know for sure how it will end. What consequences this will bring and what will be of the man who's sitting in a chair behind the bars of a jail.

The good friend Lestrade asks him why he isn't attending to crime scenes and criminal chases and John finds himself speechless because he doesn't even know the reasons. He just knows someone who can tell all the reasons, but he's in jail now. And he knows his husband's reasons are excuses, accusations and bullets.

Just to tease the man, Lestrade walks with him until they are standing in front of him. Sherlock doesn't jump in his seat, or moves. He keeps his expressionless face and walks out once the DI opens the jail door. Not a word. He doesn't say a word and John continues talking about the weather, the kids at surgery, and another amount of things he knows makes his husband desperate.

He thinks and manages to create a logic that sounds so selfish to him, but if he is going to leave, he wants to do it leaving a good memory. Leaving Sherlock wondering, thinking and ripping his hair from his head thinking how he did it. How he managed to leave without saying a word and not even asking for explanation, if there are explanations.

Lestrade tells him the reasons why his husband has been in jail last night. Taking advantage of a crying witness and then assaulting a police car just to take the evidences to investigate by himself. The usual, says John and Sherlock looks at him with a stern look. The Doctor shows no interest in his husband's looks and continues talking, just delaying the moment of signing the documents and help the mad man to get his freedom. He smiles at the senseless jokes the silver haired man does, because he know how much this acting will cost him once outside the Scotland Yard or in Baker Street.

He signs and both men are free to go. And no one talks when the blonde man raises his hand and hails a cab to take him back home when the other man gets inside with him.

Silence.

It's his free day and he regrets it. He really wants to say good bye, not literally but well hidden in a disguise of a promise of seeing them the next day. And John even considers the idea of going to pay them a little visit. He knows what a rainy day means at surgery, with kids and mothers running from one place to another. But he also knows what a rainy day can do to both men. And when they are in 221 B John's eyes are looking back at what was and what could have been. His blue eyes are meeting Sherlock's grey ones and he sees himself there, taking advantage of every occasion. And today was the day. Today was his chance.

And he wasn't going to waste it.

The other man yells. He yells a lot and John listens. Quite and calm, swallowing all the tears he can't let out and listens to every accusation, every lie and every bullet fired by Sherlock's gun is taken by his body. Then he can't hear him. He just sees his pale hands moving in the air, gesturing something he can't quite understand, but he hears a buzzing sound in his ears. Everything is silent but the buzzing is the only thing he can hear. John licks his lips and pouts feeling how cold and sweating his hands are. His knees are weak and he falls in his armchair, tired. He even smiles, making Sherlock Holmes angrier and his yells have a new and high volume now. He doesn't understands or observes that his husband can't hear him and that it's a question of hours.

And then he stops. He stops when he starts hearing himself.

He wonders what had happened to him.

What had happened with both.

Or, let's better say what he had done to that man, deaf and weak in his armchair when the sound of the kettle boiling takes him to the kitchen to see how the rain had stopped and how the sun is shinning again in the sky.

* * *

Men have pride, they can't share their feeling and crying is a bad word for them. Most men can't accept their failures and their mistakes. Forgiveness, confession and redemption are something most of the world can't relate with men. And most of this logic can be applied to Sherlock Holmes. But we have to add the fact he's Sherlock Holmes.

And John accepted that.

This afternoon, while John digs in an old box covered with dust lost in the deepest of his old room, he can't stop smiling at the old memories he brings back again when old pictures and objects saved as souvenirs are over the mantelpiece. A picture of both of them wearing hats to hide from the press, one taken with Mrs Hudson when she used to live downstairs and one in their wedding. All of them look so good there plus the deerstalker hat over the yellow skull John knows what kind of mess he will make tomorrow. But then again, he can't help if he's not going to be here to see that.

Tea time passes while he continues digging the box and he glances at his gold ring in his left hand. It looks so shiny and new, even when it has ten years! He always polished it, his and his husband's. But lately, he has been cleaning his only.

He also finds his dog tags, and two flags the Army gave him long time ago when he was invalidated back to London. A Union Jack flag and a Saint George's cross flag perfectly and neatly folded. He raises his eyebrows because it looks like the flags the Army sends to the families of those who had died in the front line. John laughs a bit and sips a bit of his now cold tea.

The Doctor can't stop thinking what will be of his things once he leaves. Maybe they will be helpful to the other man, to feed the fireplace and keep himself warm on the winter days.

John Watson keeps the flat in silence, only interrupted by the busy street outside and prepares everything. His dog tags, the flags, and with papers and a pen in his hands, he occupies his usual place in the desk of the sitting room and writes. He hasn't written a letter in ages, but he knows how to start, what to say and how to finish it. The Doctor only wants people to know why he's leaving and how. John bits the pen and wonders if people would accuse him. So, in the bottom of the sheet, he writes his confession and with that, he lets the other man free of any charges.  
No one here is guilty but Sherlock Holmes. But his guiltiness will be judged later, not in a court, not with police officers and not with a public again. His guiltiness will be judged in front of the most difficult jury that could have ever exist; conscience.

You may think he's angry, filled with pain and with the feeling of leaving. But he isn't. John Watson is so calm that he can't believe it himself. He's going to be free and no one can steal that from him. He's finally realizing what he did lose, and what he had given to the other man. Maybe thoughtlessly or not, but John is keeping something inside him no one could and no one will be able to take from his chest. Despite the silence, the hatred, the careless look in his husband's eyes and the coldness of his attitude to him, John is still in love with Sherlock Holmes. A professional masochist he is. No matter how much he thinks and thinks how everything ended, he knows he won't find the answer. Not even leaving. Not even the Detective knows the answer.  
But maybe, just maybe leaving will give, at least one of them, the answer both are craving for.

And that answer will make him free.

John Watson wants Sherlock to be free, like him but he knows he will find his freedom in a completely different way than he did.

* * *

_All alone, it was always there. And it was always standing next to him. There is always something you should feel frightened of, and John was aware of it. He, standing there and watching it coming from the edge of the room. And John Watson knew what was going to happen that night. He had just met his angel. And this angel told him the plans for him. He just nodded._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Having a sixth sense, John makes tea for two. He places two cups, milk, cookies and sugar for both and he occupies his usual place in his comfy and soft armchair and writes. He writes a lot. A lot. But he knows he needs to leave everything settled or he won't be feeling good knowing there are loose ends. Two letters for two men. One is full of requests. The other is full of sentiment.

And he wasn't wrong, because the other man arrives and undoing his blue scarf, he sits in front of him and takes a cup. His grey eyes follow John's left hand while he writes and they dance. Sherlock's grey eyes dance on him and John lets that happen. No matter how much hard he tries, John knows Sherlock won't be able to know what is about to happen.

Sherlock can't know. He won't know.

They don't talk. John closes his blue eyes as he folds the sheets of both letters and place them in envelopes. White envelopes. And while his husband watches him, the Doctor's lungs are starting to relax. His hearts beats slowly. A slightly pain invades his chest, but he's such a good actor.  
John Watson won't let Sherlock Holmes know before hand about this.

And he wonders what his reaction will be like.

But there's only silence. Two pairs of eyes, grey and blue are meeting but no one says a word. The sun has disappeared and it's dark outside. John chuckles when he relates darkness with his husband. They don't know for how long they had been like that, just drinking tea in silence and looking into the their eyes. They are looking into their eyes looking for redemption.

Redemption just one of them will find.

And the other will have to look for it by himself. Alone.

The blondish man looks at the clock. And he knows it's better going to bed. And rest.

And finally have the rest he was craving for so long.

Maybe Morpheus isn't angry tonight.

* * *

_"I love you Sherlock"_

_He closed his eyes and looked down at the pair of short hands hugging his torso. He sighed quietly, just for himself and moved his body in order to keep away his bare back from the other man's head._

_And he found himself in the position he knew he was going to be someday. He couldn't reply John's words. Sherlock Holmes found himself in the position he knew he was going to be._

_Sherlock Holmes doesn't love John Watson anymore._

_._

_"But-"_

_"This is important."_

_"This is also important, it's our anniversary"_

_"I have important things to do."_

_._

_"You're not eating?"_

_"Why would I eat?"_

_"I care about you. You don't care about me?"_

_"Well, I don't"_

_._

_He kissed him, he touched him. But he wasn't there. Sherlock's body was there, but his mind was somewhere else. And John could feel it._

_"Sherlock, what's wrong?"_

_"Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer?"_

_"I don't know what's happening with you!"_

_"You."_

_._

_"Your brother came-"_

_"I don't care"_

_"I wish I could have my sister alive-"_

_"What for? To see her drink and ignore as she always did?"_

_._

_"We need to talk"_

_"I don't want to talk"_

_"But we have something we need to discuss"_

_"No, John. There's nothing I want to discuss with you."_

_._

_"You see but you don't observe"_

_"I'm not stupid you know"_

_"That's what every stupid thinks."_

_._

_John was reading the reports of Sherlock's latest case while they were having another silent breakfast._

_"I love you, Sherlock"_

_He never got an answer and finally, John talked to him for what it was, the last time._

_"Are you still caring about us?"_

_The dark haired man made himself sure to let his intentions clear in his husband's mind. And with a cold stare, he answered John's question._

_"No."_

* * *

John Watson, places an envelope with a letter, his wedding ring he has been polishing early that afternoon and his medals inside. Another largest package is being placed over his bedside table, containing the flags perfectly folded. Everything has been calculated.

But before going to sleep, he takes a shower and erases every trace of stress, and he even manages to think he's getting himself clean for the important meeting he has tonight. John uses his husband's shampoo and closes his eyes when he feels that distinctive smell. Sherlock's smell and perfume. And he also uses his soap, and the bathtub changes. John feels himself warm and secure. That smell is transporting him to the place he knows he will be soon. And then he realizes it's time now.

While he dresses himself, he stops at every scar and he smiles because he can remember the reasons. The reasons of why he has scars in his body. Some of them caused by his own clumsiness back in childhood, some of them caused in countless nights when he tried to rescue his sister from the local pub, some others are the product of his loyalty, fighting for the Queen and for his country. And the latest ones caused by defending the love of his life. The doctor had been risking his own life for too long.

Tonight it's time to give him a rest.

His greyish hair is still damp when he let his head rest over his pillow and his body over his usual place in that big bed. John begs for Sherlock. He needs him to be in the same bed tonight. He can't leave without taking a last chance. If he gets what he wants, John Hamish Watson will be able to go completely happy.

And Destiny moved strings there, because magically or not, the detective appears and makes his way under the duvet and lays in his right arm, giving his back to his husband. Like any other night, John's eyes rolls from one place to another and those blue eyes meet dark curls. He won't count them all, he won't touch them, and he won't smell them as he's dying to do.  
Instead of that, John speaks.

"Sherlock"

He's not asking, he's calling him. And the older man can see through the fabric of his husband's shirt his bony ribcage moving after a silent sigh. John's voice feels so sore, full of pain that he even wonders if the young man can deduce that too.

"Yes, John"

The mad man answers. A silent pair of tears are falling from his blue eyes and John smiles. He's got a chance tonight. And he's not going to waste it. He's going to clung to that chance to never let it go. His heart is at stakes and even when he knows he will leave soon, he wants to do it remembering this moment. Because he knows that very deep in Holmes heart, he knows he's going to die.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

John waits.

He waits for an answer. There must be an answer.

A deep ad baritone voice replies and even turns around a bit, just to let John see his grey left eye for the last time. Complicity in the extreme. Both men are accomplices of something that will set them free. At least, one of them.

"Goodnight, John."

And that's it. Now John Hamish Watson can rest in peace. Because he turns around to see those photographs over the drawers again and he closes his eyes. A deep and long sigh is being hear by the taller man in that bed and then John's heart stop beating. His lungs stop moving and ribcage stop rising. He feels the need of turning around, because he can sense something. Something is wrong.

But Sherlock Holmes doesn't turn around and closes his eyes. There's a new case lying in his own bed, just beside him and he won't take it. Not know. Because this case is simply domestic, not worth his time.

* * *

_When he opens his eyes, he finds himself lying over a green grass, holding hands with the love of his life. Both are dressed like the day they got married and he's smiling. John asks him why he smiles. And the other man stands up and offer his hand again and John can't deny his invitation. His limp has gone, as the pain in his shoulder and he wonders why this is happening._

_Sherlock hushes him and kisses him. He even assured him nothing will do them apart. Nothing._

_"Not even death?"_

_The younger man walks with him until they stop in front of a large lake. The water is so clear and blue that John agrees with him that it looks like a mirror. Both men go down till their knees meet the green grass again and they look down into the water._

_Their reflections are clear. And the water, as a mirror, shows them their youth and the hope in their faces._

_There is nothing more. Just the two of them._

_Everything is about them. Just the two of them._

_And John Watson is happy. He feels his heart beating inside his chest and his eyes sparkling. This is the place he belonged to long time ago. And he even regrets that his presence here has taking him so long._

_"Nothing will do us apart. Never. Because I have you."_

_The dark haired man smiles and nods. They share a long and deep kiss till he breaks it._

_"And because I love you, John. I'll always love you."_

_John nods with him in agreement. This doesn't hurt._

_This is Heaven._

* * *

When he open his grey eyes, he hears his husband's clock alarm beeping. He counts to three, but he doesn't turn it off. And it's annoying.

Sherlock presses a long arm over John's right shoulder in order to reach the clock and turn the alarm off. He believes that's enough to wake him up and gets inside the bathroom to have a shower first. He can smell his own shampoo, and he discovers John had used it last night. And that isn't annoying him. John's actions can't cause him any emotion.

He expects tea when he approaches the kitchen, but the tea maker isn't up yet. And with an air of discontent, he prepares just one mug and one tea bag and at the time the kettle finally announces him the water is ready, the detective realizes today is not John's free day. He must go to work and for some reason he's up yet. That lollipops bag is there over the counter. His white coat is on the basket and his bag is over the sofa. And he knows John Watson enough to say he's never late for work.

And while there aren't any cases, he sighs and gets up from his place in his black armchair to their room. In his way, he feels a strange smell, strange in his flat, because he knows what that smell means.

When he gets inside the room, his feet stop their journey. John is lying over his left shoulder, with his back to the door.

Sherlock can see the back of his ribcage. And its not moving.

And curiosity kills the cat.

He walks until he's standing next to him. He kneels until their faces share the same level. His head moves from one side to another while he sees his pale face. His hands are so pale, so pale in a prayer position under his chin and a pale hand strokes his cheeks. They are cold. John's body is cold and he's not breathing. He's not moving and no matter how hard Sherlock shakes his shoulders, he won't wake up.

Two steps back and his grey eyes meet two envelopes over the bedside table. When he takes them, he already knows what is inside. Instinctively he opens the smallest envelope and prepares one hand to receive the contents inside. A letter addressed to him, medals and his wedding ring, perfectly polished with its engraving inside shinning.

_"Mine says 'John Watson' and yours 'Sherlock Holmes'"_

_"Because we belong to each other"_

_"Till death do us apart."_

His dark silhouette moves from the place he's standing to his usual black armchair with a violin in his hands that are perfectly used to this violin and with a quick, studied and a very neat movement he supports his face over the chin rest and let his fingers dance over the scroll and then to the fingerboard. The other hand moves in the air holding the bow and soft, hurtful and dark notes are produced by this man and his violin.

The only audible sound is developed by this dark haired man and his violin. The curtains are wide open and the glasses are dirty but the light fights and win, illuminating the only man alive in that room and his dark music. The little pieces of broken frames and ripped pictures are shinning too and then the notes change their rhythm and the violinist is losing control.

The bow his hurting the strings of his precious instrument and the fingers of the tall musician are bleeding. He stands up and walks until he's just inches away from him and continues playing heavily with erratic movements, frowning with the sun light that is also entering from the window in front of the bed. It shines over his pale and expressionless face. His grey irises are shinning.

Sherlock Holmes isn't crying. He's just playing the violin because he needs to think why the man lying in his bed is dead.

Tick tock goes the clock, even for him.

_"This letter is addressed to you and it's bound to be read by you and only you in case of my death..."_

The bow is moving slowly over the strings and the violinist is creating a new piece of music.

_"I know what is taking me now. It is you. You are taking me and I know it. I know I am going to die soon after I finally close my eyes tonight."_

He closes his eyes so tightly that his fingers are pressing the strings with more force than necessary. The creation, his creation, is changing its colours. Its not a sweet tune now.

_"Pretend some sadness and fake some tears. It will be helpful for you, trust me..."_

The tune in his violin is dark.

_"Looking for Heaven, Sherlock, I found the devil in you..."_

The tune in his violin becomes scary.

_"Please, when you find my body, don't harm it... Let me rest in peace, Sherlock."_

The violinist stops and moves the bow against the lifeless body lying on his bed. He can not stop. He can not stop hitting him because he left and nothing will bring him back. Not even hitting his dead body will bring him back.

Tears starts to flow from his grey eyes and he stops when he needs air, because he's convulsing. The detective can observe now what kind of bruises form on a dead body and that makes him remember that day. the day they met and the day they chose the other for ever.

For ever till death do them apart.

Till now.

Sherlock Holmes covers his face with his hands, looking for a reason. Looking for the reasons. This is a case in which he's the owner of all the clues but then again, he can't solve this.

Sherlock Holmes can't solve the case of the death of John Hamish Watson. And he lets the letter lay over the floor.

_**April 15th, 2012. LETTER ADDRESSED TO SHERLOCK HOLMES.** _

_Sherlock Holmes,_

_This letter is addressed to you and it's bound to be read by you and only you in case of my death._

_My life is a disaster, Sherlock, and I don't want you on it. Not any more. The causes of my departure, physically speaking, are natural. I'm not ill, all the opposite in fact, but my heart decided it can't beat. And I accepted that without the concern of anybody else. Because naturally, my heart belongs to you. It had always belonged to you, but you seemed to forget that. You, Sherlock Holmes, ripped my heart in countless numbers in front of my eyes every day with your silence, your coldness and every yell, and with your murderers eyes. So finally, I decided I'm done with my graceless heart._   
_I went to Afghanistan and I met the same Hell, all it's demons and I've seen so many lives being taken. I knew I could die at any moment, but I also knew I wasn't going to die there. I know what is taking me now._

_It is you._

_You are taking me and I know it. I know I am going to die soon after I finally close my eyes tonight._

_I always wondered if people know when they are about to die. If there is a signal, or if an angel appears to tell you your time is done. And now I know it. I met my angel this morning before I could go and set you free from jail. And while I write this, I can not believe you needed me to be free. Please note this is not sarcasm. I know you weren't good with sarcasm but now you are an expert. So I trust you will not detect any of that feeling in this letter. I, John Watson, set you free early this day. God really planned this, hasn't he? Look at it as an exchange of favors. I set you free this morning, and now you're realizing you did the same in the night._

_No matter how hard I try to think, I can not find the moment when everything started. I can not find the moment when both of us stopped talking, when we stopped holding hands. I can not find the moment when you stopped loving me, if you did. But I know you did. I could have ripped my heart out of me just to remember that moment when you stopped loving me, the last time you kissed me, the last time you touched me. The last time you told me you loved me and I can't remember, Sherlock. I look at old pictures of our wedding or the ones about or first cases together, and it hurts like Heaven not being able to remember those moments. And I treasured them in my heart and then again, I can't remember. Can you, Sherlock? Can you remember the moment I proposed to you, the moment when we first made love, the moment when we had plans together? I don't even know why I'm asking if you are not going to answer me. Maybe after tonight I'd be able to know the answers of all those questions, but it hurts me to know I won't be able to hear them from your own mouth._

_It's hard to love a demon, not impossible, but it is hard. A fine romance, isn't it. But its leaving me so impaired. A half heart can't beat when the other half had left. And I can see no way in this life without you. I need you to continue breathing and my heart needs you to continue beating. And you're not here for us, so is better if I shot this pain your absence is causing us._

_Also, I wanted to tell you so many things, face to face obviously. But it's so hard to do it when your own eyes are burning my skin. My throat feels sore. I can not speak for myself and this is why I'm leaving this letter. When we came back for the Yard early today, I stood up in the middle of our sitting room hearing my conviction from your lips. I've heard every accusation and you signed my sentence. I couldn't hear you and I'm still can't. I'm deaf and I'm speechless. I swear to God I couldn't hear your yells. My knees were weak and my eyes were blind. I prefer to leave this world remembering those happy moments between us that you yelling at me things I don't deserve._

_Because I don't deserve the hatred feeling you have been reaping against me._

_And I don't understand what I did to deserve this from you. I can not remember the last time I felt any joy. The last time I felt my heart warm._

_You may care about this or not, but I'm leaving this world relieved. I've lived a life full of good and bad moments, more good than bad, believe me. I'm grateful to you, because without you, maybe I could have killed myself a long time ago. You gave me all the love I wanted and despite the fact that love died before me, I'm leaving all the life as I knew it, happily. The only thing I regret with all my heart is not being able to tell you face to face what I already have written here, and what I already know and what you seemed to forget._

_While I'm writing this you're furiously observing me through those grey eyes. I'm observing you, and you haven't changed in the past ten years, Sherlock. I admire that. Believe me. Not a single wrinkle in that porcelain face of yours nor a single white hair in that dark and curly head. You resemble youth and life. Have a long life, Sherlock._

_My apologies for leaving my will to your brother (I don't know how do you would feel to know this, maybe relief, I don't know), but I seriously don't want you to be bothered with a dead body and nonetheless, my things. I'm truly sorry for my boxes upstairs. I catalogued everything and you can do whatever pleases you with them but, as a suggestion, think in your homeless network. I'm sure they will need jumpers and jackets this winter. Before you ask your brother, I don't want to be buried. I don't want and I don't need anyone feeling the need of going to the cemetery to leave me flowers. Not even you. But that is something Mycroft will be taking care of. My flags, my medals and my wedding ring are bound to be burnt with my body. Please, do give them to your brother._

_Do not worry about the police. The causes of my death, as I wrote at the very beginning of this letter, are purely natural so they won't be charging you with murder. And yes, I have been searching for information. And I also know the police likes to pop their noses where they don't suppose to. You'll call them soon after you found my dead body. Pretend some sadness and fake some tears. It will be helpful for you, trust me. But then again, that's something your brother will be handing as well and I'm truly sorry for bothering you with Mycroft. I know how much you dislike him (I'm sorry, but I can not use the word 'hate' like you do) but he's the only one left and I do not have any family to ask for all these things. I think that after years being your keeper, this is the last thing I can ask for._

_No one will be charged with my death. I'll leave that to the God I do believe._

_Please, when you find my body, don't harm it. I can't care the less, really. But don't get off your fury with me. The only thing I'm asking you is to respect so far is my dead body. Let me rest in peace, Sherlock._

_If I could go back in time, believe me when I say I won't change anything. Not a single moment. Not Afghanistan and not even meeting you in that lab at Bart's. I would chose all of that again. Even this pain, Sherlock. Even this pain, if it means I'd be able to share all those years with you, all over again. I'm trying to convince my mind the good moments beside you improve these last months. I love you. I love you with all my heart, with all my being. I'd give you all my blood if you ask me to. I would give you my heart if you need it. But I don't blame you. Sherlock Holmes must have got bored with me long time ago, and it's my moment now. I can't help but being the bored John Watson. I'm sorry if you expected more of me. And no, I'm not pitying me in order to make you feel bad and guilty. Don't feel guilty, Sherlock. I'm only saying (or writing) the truth you, Mr. Punchline, couldn't tell me. I see and I do observe._

_Continue with your work. The world needs you cleverness. London needs you._

_Captain John Watson, M.D._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A close person to me, years ago, took his car and without saying a word, went to the house he owned in front of a beautiful beach one weekend. He never gave a reason, why he was going there alone, and even without clothes and money. We finally discovered soon after his arrival at his house he went to his bed to sleep and died.   
> I believe some people know when they are going to die.


	4. Chapter 4

The broken object is over the table rolling from one side to other. The sun is filtering through the dirty glass of the windows. And the kaleidoscope still reflects the colors hidden inside it. But even broken, its making funny, undefined and colorful shapes in the opposite wall. A pale hand takes the object and it dies when is smashed against the floor, showing the different beads and gems that used to give the object its psychedelic effect.

Sherlock let his eyes meet with the mantelpiece and he sees them all. All the pictures and souvenirs John has been looking for the day before to say (good) bye. He doesn't need to be a graduate from Cambridge to count the three pictures and recall all those moments they represent. The first one had been taken after solving a strange and peculiar case at the local theater in London, wearing hats. Both of them. The next one has the two of them writing in their laptops almost smiling, a picture surprisingly taken by their landlady when she used to live there and the last one is the biggest. Taken the day of their wedding as John calls- correction - used to called it. But it was only a civil partnership. A contract in which both of them signed to be responsible for the other in case of damage. Sherlock always believed it wasn't necessary, but John insisted and God, he insisted a lot. And the detective agreed. But now, the document saved in the deepest of their desk drawer is no longer useful if his brother is the one taking care of all of his husband's things.

Even his own body.

He smashes all the frames against the floor and his bare feet bleed when they meet the broken glass. He doesn't care. Because not happy with the damage on their carpet or the damage imposed over John's work, Sherlock takes them with his hands and rips them. And all the pictures die in uncountable numbers of little pieces. Specially John's face.

Because the hatred Sherlock Holmes has been sowing against John Watson explodes today.

A deerstalker hat also meets his own death when its burnt with acid in the sink.

The violinist takes his musical instrument again and looks for his scores. He will play again that song and he won't mind for his bleeding feet nor his bleeding fingers. He won't mind about the hurt strings, no. He will play and play.

**Message from Mycroft Holmes - 10.23 P.M**

**_Everything has been settled. MH_ **

The tall man frowns when he reads the unread text on John's mobile phone. He had mentioned Mycroft in the letter he addressed to him, but isn't aware of all the things John Watson had asked. Things Sherlock Holmes won't be part of. Because John Watson didn't want him to.

But he plays. He plays a long and dark song he composed long time ago, and he plays for his little audience. A dead man lying over his bed, with his hands in a prayer position and with a tired expression on his face. The detective opens the window and let all the residents at Baker Street hear his composition. The sun shines incredibly stronger than usual and soon, he hears three cars at their door and people in the stairs.

He stops.

The first person coming inside his him. He's wearing a black suit with a matching tie and a dark umbrella as well. Mourn. Mycroft Holmes is mourning John Watson.

A man well dressed, not speaking at all, gestures the group of forensics to remove the body, but with a cold glare the British Government man closes the door of the room.

And there's only him, his brother and John.

"What do we know about this man?" Sherlock Holmes asks, while he places his violin on the other side of the bed, his side and with the bow in his right hand points at his dead husband. His older brother is just following his movements with his green eyes. His green eyes that look so tired and sad this morning. Because receiving John's will and his letter was the last thing he wanted to read. Even when he knew this was about to happen.

This was bound to happen.

"What do we know about this _dead_ man over the bed?" He emphasizes over the word _dead_ and continues speaking while he touches and observes John's body, like if he were another case.

"What do we know about this _dead_ man over my bed? If I didn't know him, I'll say late forties, early fifties. Looks older judging by the wrinkles in his face and the white hairs on his head. Stress. This man had been under a lot of stress and through a strong depression. Marks on his neck. He carries a heavy and big stethoscope, the ones used for children, Doctor, pediatrician. Army Doctor in fact. Could be Afghanistan or Iraq. He has a big scar on his shoulder. A shot, invalided back to London. Not only that, he used to have a limp years ago, but it came back..." Sherlock removed the blue socks on John's feet and looked at them."... it came back a year ago judging by the light bruises in the arch of his feet. His hair is neatly combed and the pillow is slightly damp. He took a shower before going to sleep. He used a lot of soap, he's still have rest of it under his arms and legs and-" This time, Sherlock touched his hair, closing his eyes when his fingertips met the softness of his deceased husband's hair. He smelled like him. John had used his shampoo. "-And the fact his hair and his pajamas are perfectly conserved, they indicate he died soon after he fell asleep. He never moved since he lay in this bed-"

"Why, Sherlock?"

The older man's voice sounds so sore. He can't barely talk, but he's still there. Looking for an answer and looking at his brother with those sad and tired green eyes.

"He's left handed. He has a callosity in his middle finger of his left hand where he supports the pen when he writes. He had several bruises and scars over his body. Three types of scars, some of them are from his childhood. A very clumsy kid. Some others are from knives. This man doesn't look like the drinker type who has fights after pints in a pub. He was used to fight at pubs for someone, not for himself. A closer relative. A sibling. The last type of scars are recently. In the inner part of his arms and under his ribs. He must have fallen over the pavement of a street or over the cement floor of a public pool trying to push someone to the water. He tried to save someone, he tried to keep someone alive-"

"Sherlock-"

"Oh, but there are more! His ring. He has a ring, he's married but he removed it before going to sleep. The white line in his ring finger of his left hand? Too strong, without looking at the ring I'd say he had been married for years" The detective takes the ring, that was resting over the bedside table and looks at it carefully. His grey eyes move from one place to another, scanning it and taking his own conclusions. "Despite the fact this ring looks brand new, it isn't. The owner of this ring, this man here, had been polishing it through the years and before, preferably yesterday afternoon. Strong sentiments, this man was deeply in love with his partner. The engraving. The engraving says a lot since it has not this dead man's name but his partner's. _Sherlock Holmes_ "

A long silence invades the room. Mycroft Holmes, the British Government himself stays in his place, standing in front of the large bed where John's dead body is lying. His green eyes scan the room and he sees all the things John had warned him before hand in his letter. The flags, the medals and the rings are beside him, as he said. He also warned him about his brother's actions. His tee shirt is bruised. He can see his body as been moved. Sherlock must have shook his shoulders trying to bring him back. And his back, his shirt is bruised. He had been hit with something and that something is in his brother's long hands. He wants to take John away from this and from Sherlock. He must do it, because John made him promise he will.

And Mycroft Holmes remembers John's letter by heart.

* * *

**LETTER ADDRESSED TO MYCROFT HOLMES. IT MUST BE READ ONLY IN CASE OF MY DEATH.**

_Mycroft Holmes,_

_As it says up here, if you are reading this, it means I'm going to die._

_I'm leaving you my will because I don't want to disturb your brother with things he can't and he won't mind at all. I don't want to impose anything to him. My parents are both dead, my sister left years ago when she drank herself to death. I don't have anyone. You, Mycroft, my brother-in-law, are the last family left and I'm proud and happy you are the only one._

_There isn't any need to explain the reasons of my departure though I bet my life (my life) that you already know why. After a long time I don't really want to think how much time exactly, I have been fighting against this moment and I surrender._

_Your brother can't be charged with my death, even when I'm supposed to die naturally. I do trust, and I'm aware of all the power in your hands. Tomorrow, I need you to arrive early in the morning, before eight. I must be lying in Sherlock's bed. You'll need to settle a show for the neighbors. Actors, or if you have a special forensic team, it will help. Remove my body from Baker Street as soon as you can. I need to be from away from here, because I know what will happen to me. Your brother has strange tendencies, Mycroft. Take me away as soon as you can and then burn my body. I do trust Sherlock will hand you my flags, my medals and my wedding ring. They will be beside me. They are bound to be burnt with my body. Burn them with my body and throw my ashes to the Thames. I have good and bad memories there, but the Thames hides too many things that ashes of a dead man won't mind at all. Please, don't let anyone to investigate about my death, on my body. I don't need to be taken to a mortuary. Believe me, my heart will stop beating. That's all. A painless death. Arrange everything so it looks like an imminent heart attack. I need you to keep this from the Scotland Yard. Lestrade needs to believe I died that way, or they won't hand Sherlock more cases and we know what happens to him when he is not using his magnificent cleverness._

_My savings are in the bank account you already know about and I want you to give that money to the Pediatric wing at Surgery. There isn't too much, but enough to buy new toys and a few things for the kids there. They do deserve something, after giving me all the happiness and love they gave me. And believe me they did a great job. They made my dark days a bit brighter._

_A last request, my dear brother-in-law, do take care of your brother. He's fully capable of it, but keep an eye on him. I have the feeling you'll have to hire a housekeeper or a maid tomorrow. Make sure he keeps working, that he keeps his mind engineering, that the person who owns him now doesn't harm him nor hurts his heart. Make sure he's happy. Make sure he lives. Make sure Sherlock lives a long and prosperous life._

_Make sure Sherlock forgets me._

_You are aware of how many times I tried to convince Sherlock to talk to you, to be the brother you do deserve, after all, you're the only Holmes left after your mother's death and I'm aware of your love towards your little brother, of your concern towards him. You know that. So in exchange, let's put it this way, I'm only asking you to take care of my body and the police. I feel so embarrassed, asking you this like an exchange of favors because believe me, Mycroft, I never wanted anything in exchange for being your brother's partner. Though I have been a more a keeper than a partner. But I don't have anyone left, and you, my brother-in-law, you were- you are like the brother I never had. I regret with all my heart telling you this by letter and not face to face, but there are so many things I always wanted to say, that my heart aches in pain. I regret not being able to talk to you face to face and even giving you a last shake of hands. I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry for leaving you in charge with these things and I apologize again, I'm sorry, I don't want to impose you anything. But as I said, you're the only one left. I don't have a family anymore, less a partner. I'll repeat it, you my dear brother-in-law are the last person left to me. You were like a brother to me, and I'm sorry for not letting you know this before. Here is where I regret so many things. And one of them is this. I really wish I could give you a hug, like the one you gave me when I got married with your brother._

_I must stop, I'm getting too repetitive._

_You are a very clever man, I don't really have enough adjectives to describe you, but I'll miss you a lot. You were like a brother to me, and you always have been there when we needed you. And I'm leaving relieved, knowing the British Government and this world are in good hands, Mister Mycroft Holmes._

_Pleasure to meet you._

_My best wishes,_

_Captain John H. Watson. M.D._

* * *

He tells him about the letter without reading it, because he knows it by heart and he repeats every word, every one. Even the commas, the points. Everything.

"Why, Sherlock?"

The young man looks at his brother and runs a hand over his dark curls. He looks down at his left hand, where his wedding ring is. It's so dirty, unpolished for years now. He removes it. Sherlock Holmes removes it from his finger and compares his with the other one.

"The owner of this ring hasn't polished it for years, but it shines inside. The man was used to remove the ring to claim his singleness, because something about his partner made him. His name is engraved inside. His partner's name shines. _John Watson_. The dead man had strong feelings towards his partner, even when he thought that that person didn't love him anymore"

"Why, Sherlock?"

Mycroft Holmes repeats the question because he wants to hear the answer. He knows the answer, but he needs Sherlock Holmes saying it. Because Sherlock Holmes knows.

"I know he died after closing his eyes last night because I saw him. He said goodnight, I replied back and I saw him dying. I heard him, I heard his last breathe and I also heard his last beat, the last beat of his heart. I saw him _dying_."

* * *

The forensic team, hired by Mycroft Holmes, removes the body of the deceased Army Doctor John Hamish Watson shortly after eight in the morning in a black bag. Many neighbors show their condolences to the widowed man who is standing in the doorway, watching how the police and forensic cars leave, following his brother's dark car.

Of course they don't say a word. Just a sad face to him. They know how these man in black suit and a matching shirt is.

And in silence, the detective returns to his flat. Two hundred and twenty one B of Baker Street is so silent today. The tea he made for himself is cold now. There is such a mess! Broken glasses from the kaleidoscope John built years ago. Broken glasses from the pictures and frames smashed against the floor.

The smell, that characteristic smell from a mortuary had gone from Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes wears a strong perfume today.

His feet ignore all the traces of broken glasses and he lays in his bed. On his side of the bed and he lets his bleeding fingers trace imaginary patterns on John's side. The pillow is still damp from his wet hair, from his shower yesterday. The sheets, the duvet, all the room smells like John.

Sherlock Holmes closes his eyes and remembers all the moments he had lived in that bed.

.

_"What are you doing?"_

_"I'm over you on my bed"_

_"I know, Sherlock. But you-"_

_The dark haired man kissed his Doctor for the first time, that night after returning from a long hiatus of three years. And the shorter man kissed him back._

_._

_"I want you"_

_"You said it so easily"_

_"You don't want me?"_

_"I want you. I love you with all my heart, Sherlock"_

_"I love you too, John"_

_._

_"Would you marry me?"_

_"Why getting married? We are fine this way. Papers and ceremonies are rubbish"_

_"I want to be with you, and-"_

_"You are already with me. Actually, you're on top of me."_

_"I just want you- in case, just in case if something happens to me, I want you to have power over things"_

_._

_He kissed him, he touched him. But he wasn't there. Sherlock's body was there, but his mind was somewhere else. And John could feel it._

_"Sherlock, what's wrong?"_

_"Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer?"_

_"I don't know what's happening with you!"_

_"You."_

_._

_John was reading a fat book. For some reason John had been reading a lot of Medical journals and books lately._

_"Sherlock, I need you to come with me to Bart's, tomorrow early-"_

_"I'm working"_

_"I know. But this is kind of... important to me"_

_"And I have work tomorrow"_

_._

_The night after that silent breakfast, John made his way under the duvets without saying a word. Sherlock had admitted what john had been suspecting for a long time. The detective had lost interest in them. In their relationship. In their love._

_He waited, while he heard John's silent crying. Because he knew he was crying. But for some reason, Sherlock didn't say a word._

_And there was where everything started._

* * *

His mobile phone rings. And he's not moving from his place on his bed. He's still there, crying in silence while the sentiment crashes against his chest. The real feelings, the moments, the memories, John, all of them crashes against Sherlock's heart. And his chest aches. He talks alone because he knows he's there, listening to him. He asks him how he knew he was going to die. Who told him. Why he never said a word.

Sherlock asks him why he left. Why he left him alone, because he admits his feelings. He never stopped loving him. Because John Watson had to die to make Sherlock Holmes understand what he had lost. And rage, that strange and hurtful feeling invades him. Because he doesn't even know where John will be, because John didn't want him to know. And he can't even deduce it.

Because he realizes he does know nothing about the man who was lying dead. He only remembers the past. A pool, John jumping on him to save him from a bomb. John killing a cabbie in less than twenty fours hours after their first meeting. John watching him die. John visiting his fake grave. John running after criminals. John putting himself at the stakes for him.

John saved him. John had put his own life at stakes for him, to keep him alive. Sinking in his own despair, Sherlock runs a hand under his own pillow and he feels it. And he finds it. A last note. A note John forgot to write in his letter. Under his pillow, Sherlock finds the last words.

_"Tell me if love is the same for the two of us,_   
_and tell me if you dream with what I do believe._   
_And tell me if pain taught us_   
_to see the worst._   
_I'd feel better."_

He knows those words. He knows that song. That Spanish song John sang to him once in a private moment after their wedding. And he kissed him, softly. John, on tip toes, kissed him and promised him something.

_"I'll love you, always. For ever. Even after death do us apart"_

Sherlock Holmes wonders if John is still keeping that promise alive.

Fin.


End file.
